


The Light on Your Door

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: And Crowley loves Aziraphale loving food, And sexually charged besotted pining of course, Courtship, Crowley's Love Language is Acts of Service (Good Omens), Did I say this was only going to be four chapters?, Edinburgh is where all the angels hang out, Fluff, Food-Lover Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hang on this is going to be a bit of a ride., Happy Ending, Humour, Ice cream is a metaphor or something, Including ones on how to have sex with angels, Jealous Crowley, M/M, Missing all each other's signals, No wonder Crowley isn't allowed there, Oops, Pining Disaster Gay Crowley, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Romance, Sappy, Scotland, Slow Burn, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), The author reads too many angelology and demonology books, Unexpected supernatural interventions, Unfortunately there were two beds, Vacation, ridiculous plot twists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24499030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Now that the world has a future, Crowley can see his own, away from the dictates of Heaven and Hell. He has at least six thousand years to render Aziraphale as desperately in love with him as he is with Aziraphale. A trip to Edinburgh to buy a rare book is the perfect chance to spend some time together, spoil his angel, advance their relationship a little.The universe has other plans. Including suspiciously heavenly ice-cream, jealousy, kidnapping, and Crowley having to read a lot of books.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 138
Kudos: 189
Collections: Poker in a Pitch Dark Room: Multichapter Ineffable Husbands fic by KannaOphelia





	1. It's Such a Perfect Day (I want to spend it with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CopperBeech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/gifts).



> For the lovely and talented CopperBeech. I hope this glass of mostly froth brightens your week a little, because your writing certainly brightens mine. All the hugs.

It was in Edinburgh on Tuesday morning that Crowley first noticed the problem.

He'd slouched into the bookshop the morning before and said, his voice so casual and laid-back and absolutely not practised that it was almost incomprehensible, "I heard about a copy of the _Breeches Bible_ , up in Edinburgh, afraid I couldn't touch it myself for obvious reasons, but fancy a spin in the old girl? We can pick it up and have an early meal."

Aziraphale looked up, startled, and oh fuck he was wearing half-moon glasses, which wasn't fair of him at all. If Crowley discorporated, it was going to be a real pain to get a new body out of Chassis, Parts and Stationery, given he was definitely on the outs with Dagon.

"It's eight hours to Edinburgh, dear. Isn't ten in the morning a little late to leave if we want to make it there for lunch?"

"The Bentley and I can do it in three and a half."

"You most certainly could not."

Crowley gave his most snakelike grin. "Try us."

Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley could read him like Aziraphale read books, these days. Bibliophilic greed battling with concerns about speed limits and laws and being a good angel. "My dear, I couldn't possibly put you to the trouble."

Ah. So that was it. They had lived on this island for centuries, and Aziraphale had more than enough time to develop certain local manners of thought. Including the desperate need to pretend anyone doing him a favour was actually doing it for themselves, really, in fact Aziraphale was doing _them_ a favour by letting them run themselves ragged for him. Crowley, who was incapable of driving more than five miles without explaining exactly which route he had taken and which other routes he had considered and then rejected and what the traffic had been like, inwardly chuckled indulgently at the human Englishness of it all.

Of course, Aziraphale _would_ be doing Crowley a favour by letting him drive him anywhere, but ''I'll get to sneak glances at your thighs all the way and pretend to myself that we're married" was probably not an argument he could safely advance.

"Nah, don't worry about it," he said, instead. "Was thinking of popping up there anyway. Now the Arrangement is off, I don't have to cede Edinburgh to you anymore, and I was thinking of seeing what damage I could do in Auld Greekie."

Aziraphale sniffed. "Well, I certainly must accompany you, then. We might be technically on the same side, but I still have a moral duty to thwart your demonic wiles."

It had been enough of an excuse, and it had led to wonderful things. Hours spent quarrelling over Crowley's perfectly safe driving and bickering about the relative merits of Stravinsky and Satie while the Bentley ignored them both and played drippingly romantic Puccini instead. Then absorbing Aziraphale's glee over the misprinted Bible. Then, even better, dreamily watching Aziraphale consume asparagus dripping in sorrel butter.

Everything had been terrific until breakfast.

* * *

Edinburgh had just been the next step in a gradual... Well, campaign was the wrong word. Campaign was altogether too organised. Vaguely purposeful drift.

Now that the world unexpectedly had a future, it had been time to come up with a way to spend it. Crowley couldn't spend all of every day watching sitcoms and brooding on his throne like an exiled king, if the exiled king had an addiction to American situation comedy.

It was hard to come up with any ideas beyond _Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale_ and trailing around after him like a besotted puppy. On the outs with Hell or not, Crowley had his demonic pride. And he wasn't sure which would be humiliating, Aziraphale starting to hint that he had quite a lot of work to be getting on with, or Aziraphale pitying him.

Then there was the risk of Aziraphale losing interest.

Crowley knew perfectly well that the forbidden nature of their friendship had been exciting to an angel who tried to follow the rules, at least when it didn't come to giving away flaming swords. Or using divine powers to making sure there were mixups about reservations that led to tables becoming miraculously free when Aziraphale happened to fancy some lobster. Or terrorising the innocent book-buying public. _Overall_ Aziraphale had been a dutiful angel, and the Arrangement had the frisson of secret rebellion to it, especially when it involved The Enemy swooping in to rescue him. Without that, what was Crowley? A skinny creature with weird eyes and sharp teeth who lolled around on his couch scowling, bickering and getting drunk. A skinny creature with weird eyes and sharp teeth and a great arse, to be fair to himself. He'd never caught Aziraphale ogling it, so it was unwise to count too strongly on that advantage.

No, just because Aziraphale sometimes smiled at him like a ray of fond sunshine didn't mean Crowley could outstay his welcome. He had been perfectly clear for six millennia that he was gone on Aziraphale, completely lost the first time Aziraphale had smiled that anxious smile and wrinkles had formed in his brow and Crowley, straight out of the darkness and filth of hell, had wanted nothing more than to caress them away. Gone, with no hope of recovery, because even after thousands of years Aziraphale showed new aspects, new charms, new reasons to fall in love and lust. Infinite variety, yeah, that had been a good one.

Anyway, the point was that Aziraphale had plenty of chances to change their relationship in the weeks since That Sunday, and had been content with occasional social meetings punctuating the all-encompassing pleasure of hoarding books. They walked openly side-by-side now, but Aziraphale folded his hands neatly over that frankly irresistible paunch or held them clasped behind his back. There was no chance to accidentally brush the backs of their hands against each other, maybe venture a casual hand-hold. Well, Crowley was used to not holding hands.

He was damned for a second time if he was going to go back to years between meetings, though. He'd become used to regular dates, ah, debriefings, during Warlock's time as a Pretender to the Dark Throne, and it was not like anyone was going to punish them for it now.

All he had to do was desensitise Aziraphale to his presence until he was firmly entrenched in the angel's routine. That was always the ticket with Aziraphale. It had taken thousands of years to get I Have an Arrangement With a Demon and Sometimes We Drink Together All Night into Aziraphale's mindset, and now Crowley just had to gradually blend it into a Demon More or Less Lives With Me. He figured he had at least six thousand more years to do it. It was satisfying to have a big project to get on with.

Crowley started dropping around the bookshop every few weeks, sliding in and presenting Aziraphale with a cherished bottle of spirits from his store, _just happened on this, angel, do you remember the first time we drank it?_ or clutching a paper bach, _I heard ducks really like cooked rice and I cooked too much,_ or with reservations, _I gave this entire party of bankers gastroenteritis on the night of an important business lunch, heard the sea urchin is wonderful there, though, shame to make the restaurant waste it._ When Aziraphale tolerated these intrusions and still greeted him with every sign of enthusiasm, Crowley started dropping in fortnightly, then weekly.

Aziraphale never seemed annoyed. Aziraphale always met him with a glowing smile. Aziraphale _did_ glow, absolutely all the time, these days. Crowley hadn't realised just how much the angel had been dampening his radiance for fear of Heaven. Now Aziraphale smiled more often, blessed people in passing without counting miracles, was almost too bright to look at. Crowley _did_ look. He couldn't help himself, any more than his plants could help turning to the sun if he allowed them any sun, the spoiled brats.

Maybe he could take them out on the balcony occasionally. A drop of sun wouldn't make them run completely amok. Crowley wasn't sure if he had a balcony but he _could_ have one. If he wanted.

The bookshop had a sunroof. The plants might like that. They would drop leaves on Aziraphale's books only if they were determined to die a painful, terrified death.

* * *

The night in Edinburg had been both wonderful and terrible. He had packed a pleasantly tipsy angel back to his own room, despite protests.

"You know I don't sleep, dear boy. What's the point of a separate room? One would have been ample. You know what a surcharge they charge for single rooms. Probably your idea, that one."

Crowley imagined lying in bed, trying to sleep, his treacherous mind replaying Aziraphale dabbing butter off his lips with a napkin, and Aziraphale _right there._ In a chair by the bed, or _shitshitshit_ sitting in the bed with his legs under the blankets. Reading, probably. Did Aziraphale change into pyjamas when reading in bed? Did he _take off his socks_? Or, as he kept drifting back to the nineteenth century, a _nightgown_? A single layer of clothes. Aziraphale hadn't worn a single layer of clothes since that unfortunate bathing shack incident. Bare calves, with little golden hairs, in the bed, next to Crowley. A hem riding up his thighs, they were hell to keep in place, Crowley had ensured it at some point, or at least taken credit for it. Next to Crowley. In bed. All night.

There was no way Crowley survive it.

Also, there was no way he could say _Sorry, can't share a room because I'm pretty sure I'm going to wank while thinking about my best friend eating asparagus_ because Crowley might be a demon, but there was spooky creepy and inappropriate creepy and he knew exactly which category that one fit into. Bad enough that Aziraphale would be in the next room to him, divided by only a wall. And maybe barefoot. With the arches of his feet exposed like they had been in other centuries. Satan, were they ticklish? Would Aziraphale wriggle if they were nuzzled?

"G'night," Crowley said hurriedly, his voice brusque with longing and embarrassment.

"Good night, my dear." Aziraphale was looking up at him, expectantly. That look Aziraphale gave when he wanted something and wasn't going to ask, because an angel didn't ask favours of a demon. Crowley hadn't spent his long immortality frantically scrambling to figure out what Aziraphale wanted while retaining a super-cool and sexy exterior without knowing that look.

"The surcharge isn't a problem, Aziraphale. The trip is my treat. Thought you knew that."

"That's very kind of you." Fuck, how did Aziraphale _glow_ like that? But there was something like disappointment edging the pleading look and shadowing the glow. Crowley was clearly getting it wrong.

"'m not kind," he said on reflex. "Look, um, is that the problem? Running a bit short now you're off Heaven's payroll? Because you don't need to worry about that stuff, mobile apps are doing very well for me lately. Wouldn't want you having to keep yourself in the fleshpots by selling some books, people might get it into your head that you're a bookseller or something, can't have that."

The glow was definitely fading now. "I assure you I'm perfectly comfortably off."

"Oh. Right. Good. Great." Crowley bounced his leg a little. "Aziraphale, you'd tell me if you needed something, wouldn't you? D'you need a nightcap or something? A hot water bottle? A special pillow?" _A demon? I could have one in your bed in less than thirty seconds, tops._

"I have everything I need right here." The glow was back, and the prettiest pink flush on his cheeks. Fuck, his eyes were pretty. Hazel blue, and shining like stars, which weren't usually hazel blue, Crowley of all people knew that, but something about the nervous way Aziraphale was flickering his gaze away was dissolving any attempt at thought. Bloody hell, those eyelashes. "Good night, my dear," Aziraphale said a second time, only this time he raised that delectable chin a little and pressed a kiss to Crowley's cheek. His lips were warm and tender and chaste.

"G'night, angel," Crowley said, and bolted before he could do anything he couldn't take back.

A wonderful, and terrible, night. He had never been so happy, or so utterly terrified. He had been so close to slamming Aziraphale against that hotel door and kissing him in a way that was decidedly _not_ chaste, exposing his soul and risking chasing the angel away for good.

But Aziraphale had kissed him, like he was somebody dear and precious. Aziraphale was _fond_ of him. Aziraphale... oh, Satan, Aziraphale.

* * *

It was a shame that at breakfast, things started to go wrong. Crowley slithered down to breakfast, hips swinging jauntily, looking forward to watching Aziraphale tuck into a cooked breakfast, and saw Aziraphale, serene in his own glow, looking up with that wonderful flashing out of _It's you, I'm glad it's you, I'm so glad to see you_ , that look that always turned Crowley's ancient bones to something like liquid fire.

Only it wasn't Crowley that Aziraphale was looking up at.


	2. Situations arise because of the weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast. A walk in the park. Ice cream.
> 
> Absolutely nothing dangerous is going to happen on such a sedate non-quite-date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the wonderful [Willowherb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowherb/pseuds/Willowherb) for stellar Scots-picking and beta'ing. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Please imagine ice cream man as played by Peter Capaldi, thanks to enabling by certain people, you know who you are. Especially Kitty.

The human Aziraphale was talking to was about forty years old, broad-shouldered and handsome, with neatly plaited blond hair, well-groomed beard and a charming smile. Like a Viking in a rugby striped shirt. Crowley had detested Vikings. Their singing gave him headaches. Aziraphale had thought them dashing. And he was looking up at this one like he was the most delectable square of Battenburg cake served up to him, and he couldn't wait to nibble on the marzipan. And the man was looking down at him like he had never seen anyone so sunshiny and adorable.

Only _Crowley_ got to look at Aziraphale like that.

Crowley wandered over in his best aggressively sexy slouch and said, as pointedly as possible, "Good morning, angel."

The human jumped as if he'd had the tip of his finger caught in a mousetrap. He looked Crowley silently up and down, taking in the painted-on trousers, the silky, clinging designer pullover with the plaquet unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of chest hair, the Valentino sunglasses and the silver accents, and clearly took in the obvious message that he was no competition and should just fuck off. At least, so Crowley hoped.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, and there was a brightening of his already dazzling radiance. There _was_. Aziraphale was definitely looking at him with more fond pleasure than at this human interloper. "Good morning, Crowley. Did you sleep well?"

"Perfectly," Crowley said, lying through his pointed teeth. As if he could sleep soundly knowing Aziraphale was in the next room. Breathing. Moving. Reading. Perhaps cuddled cozily up under the covers. The memory of his lips burning on Crowley's face.

Well. As apparently this was something they did now...

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, leaned down and kissed Aziraphale's cheek.

It was intended to be tenderly possessive and send the right message to the human interloper, but he misjudged it somehow and his lips were too open and mashed against Aziraphale's cheek. It wasn't as if Crowley had done much cheek kissing this last couple of centuries. But that didn't matter at all because Aziraphale made a surprised and delighted intake of breath, like the kiss had been the first bite of perfectly poached salmon.

Well. That had been easy. He could have been kissing Aziraphale's cheek in greeting and farewell for weeks. Crowley's own cheeks felt as if someone had set a match to them.

"Who'sss your friend?" He was a bit mortified to hear himself hissing.

"Oh!" Aziraphale blinked as if recalling himself to the moment. "Paul, this is—oh. He's gone."

"Good." The tender possessiveness had flared into a wildfire.

"That's not very friendly."

"Good," he repeated. "I'm here to buy us books, not to be friendly with people named Paul. I'm never friendly with people called Paul. Been a bad idea all along, Pauls. Especially with beards."

"Are you quite finished, dearest?" Aziraphale was looking at him with a thin veneer of patience, and Crowley realised he was pushing it somewhat. He prepared to reign it back, and...

His brain caught up with his ears. _Dearest._ He spluttered a little, and Aziraphale pushed a cup of tea towards him. Crowley gulped it down. If _that_ was the result of a kiss on the cheek, he'd do it every time he saw Aziraphale. Would do it anyway.

"I'll—I'll— I'll order you breakfast." Crowley glared at a waiter until they stopped serving a couple of tourists mid-order, and came over to them instead. Aziraphale gave a sigh and quarter eye-roll that was perfectly calculated to communicate that naturally he didn't approve of such demonic selfishness but actually he rather liked not having to wait, and things resumed their usual pace. Crowley picked out a few delicious treats from the continental spread while they awaited their cooked breakfast, and enjoyed a few dreamy moments of perfection watching Aziraphale daintily sample croissants and dab butter from his mouth before the real business of breakfast arrived.

"Let's stay here a few more days," he said, without preamble, after Aziraphale had clucked a little over the spicy sweetness of the black pudding. He had already inhaled his omelette in order to focus on the main attraction of watching Aziraphale enjoy his food. If he played it right, he could watch Aziraphale eat breakfast every day for a _week_ , sitting in this dainty restaurant, glowing cream and beige and gold against the hazy blues and pinks. Georgian settings always suited Aziraphale best, certainly better than when he retreated to the 1950s. He could be kissed on the cheek every night. ''After all, I haven't seen the city since you banned me from it in, when was it—"

"1824." Aziraphale's brow creased.

"Last time I ever tried to make toast with hellfire."

"I can't imagine it would even taste very good. No need to look so injured. I let you have Manchester in return."

"Yeah, terrific. Look, angel, we deserve a holiday. It would be fun. I know you come up for book festivals and things all the time."

Aziraphale's gaze darted between his plate and Crowley's hands and the middle distance, his lips curving in a slight smile. "I wouldn't mind showing you around. The Botanic Gardens are quite lovely."

"Do they have ducks?"

"Naturally."

"Lead me to 'em.'"

"And then, I thought, ice cream." Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley was sure no icecream could remain unmelted in the vicinity.

As they left the hotel, Crowley's demon-sharp ears caught a few words in a pleasant, educated burr.

"That your friend, Paul?"

"Ezra. He's lovely, helps out with translations from ancient languages a lot. Don't want to get between him and a first edition, though. Pity his new boyfriend looks such a wankstain."

_Boyfriend_. Crowley nearly lost control of his legs. Clever, perceptive humans, noticing he and Aziraphale were meant to be together. _Dearest._

It was only when wandering close beside each other, shortening his stride to Aziraphale's, that the other word registered. _New._

As in _newest_?

\----

Crowley did his best to relax and enjoy the morning. And indeed, it was wonderful. Just being together, easy and relaxed, no looking over their shoulders. Feeding the ducks together because they _wanted_ to, not as information exchanges in a holy cold war. Being able to turn his head slightly and see Aziraphale beside him, cheeks pink in the cold, hear his chuckle and the fondness.

When the rain started to fall in sharp drops like little needles, Crowley reached out a hand, closed his fingers around Aziraphale's wrist and pulled him into the Temperate Palm House. They stood together, listening to the rain, looking at the elegant display of palms and fronds and white columns, orderly and spacious. Not quite holding hands. Aziraphale's wrist was warm in Crowley's grasp.

He fancied for a minute that if he turned, Aziraphale would be in more or less the same clothes as today but newer, silk tie knotted elaborately, his jaw made stronger by muttonchops. Portly and distinguished. No wonder Aziraphale's mind kept turning back to that century. It had fitted him like an expensive suede glove.

Crowley couldn't find it in his heart to regret his obsession with holy water. It had saved his life. But now, standing here in these elegant surroundings, he wished he'd had the courage to tell Aziraphale the rest of the plan. He had been planning a proper Victorian courtship. Walks together. Visits to the Zoo. Perhaps piano duets, his inflamed imagination had supplied, despite the fact that he couldn't play piano and his voice justified his name. And perhaps, in a place like this, alone in a glasshouse, he might have held Aziraphale's hand, kissed it, suggested the possibility of defecting to Heaven to be with him, and splashing holy water over any demon who objected.

Of course, he had already been banned from these particular Botanic Gardens by the holy water debacle. He probably shouldn't have burned half the city down if he wanted to use it as a courtship venue.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale, his heart on his lips, and hesitated when Aziraphale looked frowning and fretful.

"I think we were supposed to pay for entry."

"Were we?" Crowley asked innocently.

"That young lady, who seemed distracted by something on the horizon when we entered," Aziraphale said with growing certainty. "She was supposed to sell us tickets."

"Must've forgotten," Crowley said. "Slack humans, never doing their job these days. I approve." His hand was still on Aziraphale's wrist. All he had to do was slide it down, interlace their fingers. And if that went well... Old dreams welled up, and he imagined what the back of Aziraphale's expensively moisturised hand would feel like against his lips.

"Oh, look, the weather is clearing," Aziraphale said. "Time for ice cream."

He strode ahead, Crowley's hand falling from his wrist, and for once the demon was scrambling to keep up.

* * *

"It's closed," Crowley grumbled, looking at the unprepossessing door and wondering if he could find the human responsible and force them to open. The entire shop looked like it was deliberately designed to repel customers. Shut door, no decorations, a doormat white with shed dog hair. They had been to plenty of hole in the wall places, but not usually for ice cream.

Ice cream was a date, right? They went out for food all the time, especially since Tadfield. Pudding, even. But going out for ice cream was something teenagers in American films did, although when he thought about it, the chances of Aziraphale either mistaking him for an American teenager or having watched the films was vanishingly low.

Still. He had kissed Crowley good night. On the cheek or not, it was unprecedented. Things were changing.

"No, dear, it always looks like that. It does open only when the owner feels like it, but I feel quite sure it's open now. He'll always open for me." Aziraphale pushed at the door, and it yielded.

Inside the place was all right, if deserted. Small, dark and still coated with dog hair, but they'd been to worse places. Aziraphale adored fascinating little places with surprisingly exquisite food and owners who knew his name.

"We're closed," the girl behind the gelato counter said in what sounded like a reflex, then smiled at Aziraphale. She flicked her gaze to Crowley, eyes opening with avid curiosity. Crowley preened a little. "Sorry, Mr Fell. Take a seat."

Aziraphale nodded to the girl, beaming. "Good morning, Emma."

He unhesitatingly mounted the stairs at the back to a tiny eating area, and sat primly down on a wooden chair. Crowley flung himself opposite him, and fidgeted a little as Emma failed to materialise. "Want me to go order?" He grinned suddenly. "I saw they have Irn Bru gelato. Couldn't have invented something more dastardly myself. Want me to get you some?"

Aziraphale gave his widest, most delighted smile. "No need. Emma will let the owner know I'm here, and he'll bring his own selection."

Crowley was torn between bathing in the smile and a faint, jealous prickle. How many friends did Aziraphale have here? He had never really thought all that much about Aziraphale's life apart from his work, and cover, and time spent with Crowley. But Aziraphale was charming and kind. Aziraphale would have friends.

_Newest_ boyfriend.

"Crowley, thank you for coming here. This shop is, well, it's important to me. The owner, especially." Aziraphale took a deep breath. "I need you to understand that I am trusting you greatly by bringing you here to meet him"

"What do you mean—"

"Hullo, Fell. Good to see you."

The owner was immaculately dressed in an old-fashioned charcoal grey suit, long of face and nose and undeniably distingished, absolutely nothing like Crowley's vague idea of an ice cream man. An interesting face. Well past greying, though, Crowley thought vindictively. Really, was Aziraphale friends with every handsome man of a certain age in this city? But then, this man made food. Probably entirely innocent. There was no _way_ Aziraphale was bringing him to meet a formerly unmentioned... friend.

Anyone who was truly an intimate friend wouldn't address him as Fell.

Crowley glared his way through smiles and introductions, deliberately forgetting the name of icecream man the moment he heard it, and noting every flutter of Aziraphale's lashes. He probably wasn't doing it on purpose, Crowley told himself. Aziraphale never tended to hold gazes long, and of course he blinked more than a snake did. Crowley readjusted his sunglasses and waited for the ice cream.

Four separate glass dishes were set in front of them, the owner giving Crowley a decidedly unfriendly look from under beetling brows. Probably jealous that Crowley was clearly on a date with Aziraphale, whether Aziraphale realised he was or not. Ice cream. Very romantic. They could share dishes. Share _spoons_. Crowley's pulse fluttered.

Aziraphale reached for a glass, and took a delicate spoonful. Crowley felt his own pleasant anticipation slightly spoiled by the fact that icecream man was also watching with bated breath as Aziraphale licked it off the spoon, and made a noise of surprised appreciation.

"You _must_ try this, Crowley," Aziraphale said happily. "I haven't had it since Ancient Persia, at least not properly made, but this charming young man researched all the ancient recipes just for me." He nodded at the owner, who was certainly nothing like what humans thought of as young men. The man, clearly enamoured enough to ignore strange references to long-dead empires, returned a grimly fond smile that made Crowley's palms itch. "It's the most delicious Bastani Irani I've eaten in centuries."

Crowley looked dubiously at the icecream. It looked appetising enough. A slightly golden cream, fluffy and smelling of spices and honey and slightly floral and oh, all right, so it was Aziraphale in pudding form. It made Crowley's mouth water, so he glared at it, folding his arms across his chest.

"Come on, dear. You must try. It's like a bouquet on the tongue. It's flavoured with saffron and rosewater and vanilla and salep."

Something twinged at the edges of Crowley's memory. Saffron, that was crocuses, right? Vanilla and salep were from orchids, and then there was the honey and roses to take into account...

"That's worse than artichokes" he said, levelling an accusing glare at the owner. "Of all the sinful... It's worse than Petronius and those damned oysters. Or Alonso and the baked maca." It really was extraordinary how often a certain type of man tried to fill Aziraphale up with aphrodisiacs.

"What on Earth do you mean?" Aziraphale looked as annoyed as a beatifically beautiful angel with a drop of melting ice cream at the corner of his mouth could look. "Really, your moods are quite unaccountable sometimes."

Crowley scowled at ice cream man, who met his expression thoughtfully until he retreated, clearly vowing never again to make special desserts for men with companions who wore all black. "Serves him right for making you sexually provocative ice cream," the demon muttered.

"What did you say, my dear?"

"Nothing." Crowley dug moodily into the ice cream with a spare spoon. It wasn't as if he _needed_ aphrodisiacs, not when Aziraphale was sitting there for all the world like he didn't have a drop of ice cream just _begging_ to be sucked off his mouth. And all right, it was delicious. Possibly the best ice cream he'd ever tasted. Actually heavenly. It was easy enough to imagine that the spoonful in his own mouth had been sucked gently from an angelic mouth, as it dissolved slowly. He could feel his body responding, liquid fire pooling in his belly, stretching out.

"None of that in here." Ice cream man was back, and he was all spitting eyes and beetling brows. "You're tolerated in here because you're with Aziraphale, but I will _not_ have demonic lust tainting my bloody ice cream. It'll stink of sulphur for days. If Haniel pops in and smells it, you won't enjoy the consequences."

Crowley looked up at ice cream man, who was still aflame with anger. No, there was a better word. Wrath. Pure white blazing wrath. Pure, white, blazing _angelic_ wrath.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale.

"Hey, wait a minute." Crowley stood and circled automatically to get between Aziraphale and ice cream man, although all the evidence was that he was the one in danger. "Who the Hell are you?"

"Who the Heaven," said ice cream man, as if Crowley didn't know that. "The Principality Vehuel, very much not at your service." He looked up. "Damn. Get out of here, you two idiots."

There was a sound like a chime, but so high pitched it was barely at the edge of Crowley's hearing. A flash of light, burning him, scalding his sin-smeared soul, and for a moment he thought it was a smiting and panicked, because if he was gone, who was there to protect Aziraphale?

Then the light and the pain and the sound all receded, and he looked into the face of a furious thundercloud of an angel. Not _his_ angel. Crowley whirled, but he already knew there was no one behind him.

"Of all the days for you two idiots to come into my shop, did you have to choose one of Haniel's surprise check-ins?"

Aziraphale was gone.


	3. Had but Couldn't Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haha did I say this was going to be only four chapters? Oh dear.
> 
> Crowley eats ice-cream. And reads books. He's going to get his angel back somehow, even if Edinburgh appears to be some kind of celestial hotspot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to **willowherb** for wonderful beta-ing and Scotspicking. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

"Bring him back." Crowley was over the table in a heartbeat, his hands grasping Vehuel's lapels as if they were a lifeline, yanking them tight against his neck. "Bring him back _right now._ "

"Get your hands off me, demon."

Crowley instinctively tightened his grip, and felt his muscles fighting—his bones? The veins in his hands were standing out, the muscles twitching, as he fought to hold on, despite his fingers peeling back and letting go of the man's neat white shirt, as his feet neatly stepped him away from his target.

"That's better." Vehuel readjusted himself in a gesture oddly like Aziraphale, the resemblance enough to set Crowley roaring again. He tried to rush forward again, but his feet treacherously refused to cooperate.

Angelic power. Unsheathed. And he was completely helpless against it. Did Aziraphale always hold back with him? Was this the extent of Aziraphale's true power as well, or was Aziraphale truly weak? Was his angel helpless again, would they try the hellfire again, or keep him captive where Crowley couldn't reach...

Crowley swore every filthy obscenity in every language he had ever spoken, from Enochian to Esperanto, which he had invented himself as a joke. He cursed Heaven, the Archangels, Vehuel, ice cream, Scotland and God, and most especially himself, for being so careless, for thinking danger had passed, for failing to protect Aziraphale for one moment.

"Now, that's just naughty temper," said the angel Vehuel.

He waved a knotty hand, and Crowley found himself deposited painfully in a chair. "Stop crying, sit down and breathe deeply."

Oh, fuck, he _was_ crying. Tears rolled down his face with an odd remoteness, flowing without his control.

Vehuel watched him with a kind of detached disgust. "Are these demonic wiles, or are you really so over-sensitive? Have some ice cream. You'll feel better."

"They'll dessstroy him," Crowley hissed. "Or torture him. And I will torture you."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're not monsters like your side. Aziraphale might get a reprimand from his line manager. He'll be back with you in no time, and it would be better for all of us if you calmed down and left quietly." The angel looked deeply uncomfortable, as if he was searching against his will for some way to comfort a weeping demon, or at least lessen the mutual embarrassment. "Have some ice cream. Blood sugar helps after a shock."

"I don't need blood sugar!" Crowley fought to control himself. "Look, Vehuel, you were friends, right? Help me save him. There must be some way."

The thick eyebrows shot up. " _Save_ him? Don't be absurd. What is there to save him from? He's among friends."

Crowley stared at him. "You don't know?"

"Know what?" Vehuel tapped an irritated hand on the table.

"They executed him." Vehuel stared hard at him, thinking the obvious so hard it was almost audible. "Well, they tried to. With hellfire."

"No." Vehuel shook his head sharply, but it didn't seem like a complete rejection. "That's out of the question. Angels don't do things like that. We don't even use holy water on your kind. The final judgement is up to the Almighty."

"Gabriel made Aziraphale walk into hellfire," Crowley said, his hands curling into claws on the table. "Didn't you hear about it?"

Vehuel frowned. "I know there was some slight bother about Aziraphale's platoon. Never was much of a warlike type, should have left that to the cherubim. But the War was called off anyway, and the story going around is that he was just cognisant of Her will faster than anyone else. It was a relief not to have to bother with seas of blood and the War and all that nonsense." Vehuel gave the impression that he would have scowled the seas back into saltwater if it was up to him.

"They executed him with hellfire. No trial."

Vehuel expelled breath through his nose. "Are you sure? He seemed perfectly all right to me for an angel who'd been executed."

"Can't you tell if I'm lying?" Crowley asked, without much hope. Aziraphale had been lying to his senior angels by omission or misdirection for centuries, and they never seemed to doubt him.

Crowley realised a moment later that he had forgotten that Vehuel was a Principality, and had spent at least some time among humans, no matter how much he apparently tried to avoid them. The angel reached across, seized Crowley's jaw in his hand with embarrassing ease, and removed his glasses with the other hand. Crowley's face was wrenched from side to side as easily as a flower on a stem, as Vehuel examined his eyes from different angles.

"Perhaps they’re not entirely crocodile tears," he said at last. "Why are you so upset?"

Crowley looked blankly at him. "Aziraphale's gone. He's in danger. And it's my fault. I was supposed to be protecting him. I let him take me into a heavenly lair, and I didn't even notice there was another angel there, even when you were right at my table." Too busy, he thought, focusing on their stupid date, even though he had neglected to tell the other party they were dating.

"Too busy nearly coming in your trews watching him eat ice cream," said Vehuel, who was apparently having similar thoughts, but a bit less directly. "Demons are pathetic."

Crowley turned away. "Why did you bring me here, you idiot?" he snarled at the empty air. "The ice cream couldn't be that good."

"Oh, but it is."

The girl at the counter cleared her throat. "I think perhaps it was to introduce you to me." Crowley, who had forgotten her presence, looked up as she came towards them. Whatsername, Emma, was not a girl really, except in that all humans were children. She was tiny, loose waves of caramel blonde hair over her shoulders, very bright blue eyes and with jeans as tight and a top as form-fitting as Crowley's. Despite her youthful way of dressing, the lines around her eyes suggested she was in her early fifties.

Or would have been if she was human. Crowley swore again.

"I'll wash your mouth out with soapy water." Vehuel leaned across the table and stared him down. "These are my premises, and I don't allow bad language."

The pipsqueak of an angel gave Crowley a smile so sweet and dazzling that it reminded him of Aziraphale, tearing at his heart, even if she showed rather more teeth than Aziraphale ever did. She held out a small, perfectly manicured hand. "Good to meet you, Serpent of Eden, Great Deceiver. I'm the Principality Daniel." Her smile somehow became even brighter and toothier. "Angel of Marriage."

"Wait, no. That doesn't make any sense," Crowley said. "Why would Aziraphale want me to meet—no. No, it couldn't be." That moment the night before, when Azirpahale had paused expectantly outside his door. The kiss on his cheek. Crowley had been planning to slowly insert himself more into Aziraphale's life, and perhaps dare more affection but this...

Daniel was smiling at him.

"No. It's bloody ridiculous."

"Of course it is," snorted Vehuel. "Why would a demon like that marry an angel?"

"Of course I'd fucking marry him." The words came straight from Crowley's hindbrain. "But why would he marry me?"

Daniel took in his corporation from head to toe, lingering on his long legs. "No idea." She patted him on the knee. "You're a very unusual demon, you know, and he's a bit of an odd duck."

"He's a bloody strange angel," said the ice cream parlour owning Principality.

"We'll ask him, shall we?" Daniel asked brightly. "When Haniel brings him back."

Crowley's depression and fury flooded back. He needed something to smash, some plants to yell at and feed into the garbage disposal, and he was stuck here with two _stupid_ angels who _stupidly_ believed in Heaven's benevolence and Aziraphale was probably being handed over to Gabriel right now. He viciously shovelled Irn Brew gelato into his mouth. It was comfortingly disgusting, like icy bubblegum. Just needed some vodka.

"You have no bloody idea how much danger Aziraphale's in right now. And he's alone."

"You're worried he's alone and scared?" Daniel sank into the chair opposite him.

"Don't be stupid. 'Course he's not scared. Aziraphale's never scared." Worried, yes. Anxious, often. But scared? Aziraphale treated danger as a nuisance. Discorporation was distressing, risking the anger of the Almighty was stressful, facing Armageddon was alarming, the fury of Satan was a matter of urgency, but _scared_? Aziraphale? What a stupid idea. _Crowley_ was the one who felt real fear, constantly aware of all the forces out to get them. Aziraphale just bit his lip, fluttered his hands and eyelashes and was surprisingly unyielding under his unassuming manner. Facing Satan with a sword, walking into Hell and politely mocking a demon execution squad and an archangel. "Bravest being I ever met. That's what I gotta look after him," Crowley muttered around a mouthful of gelato. "Gets in all kinds of trouble without me."

"A _very_ unusual demon." Daniel patted Crowley's knee again, and widened her eyes at Vehuel, lips forming a pout.

Good grief. Could _all_ angels do that? It didn't affect Crowley when it came from Daniel, but she was not at all his type.1 On the other hand, Vehuel's craggy face softened almost imperceptibly.

"I suppose we could pop up and have a chat with Haniel. Explain that the snake creature was behaving quite well for a demon."

"Oi. I never behave well."

"Shut up, demon, and eat your ice cream."

"Take me with you." He wasn't begging. He would never beg strange angels. It was just that the words cut his lips like a knife.

"Don't be ridiculous. They'd destroy you, and given how cosy the two of you seemed, Aziraphale wouldn't be happy. There haven't been fallen angels in Hell for over six millennia."

Crowley thought of Eric, thought of his request to punch Aziraphale when he was bound and helpless, and remembered he had made plans for revenge. Maybe that would help relieve his feelings. But his priority was to get Aziraphale back safe and with him, not to argue. "You'd be surprised," he said darkly.

"It's out of the question. Remember to shut up shop behind you."

They were gone.

Crowley, because he was a demon, felt obliged to move to the ice cream counter and help himself to a cone without paying. Then he slammed his way outside into the drizzle, cone clutched in his hand.

A man holding a small child by the hand looked up. His expression was hopeful. "It's _open_?"

"Nah. Missed your chance." Crowley slouched into the rain, wolfing down pear sorbet and thinking of his pear-loving angel.

Aziraphale _had_ to be alive, or Gabriel or one of the other bastards would be here gloating to him, Crowley was sure of it. They wouldn't risk hellfire again, and if Aziraphale had Fallen, Hell would be the ones here taunting. And if the whole execution business had been kept under wraps in Heaven, they might be stumbling about trying to figure out what to do now Haniel had shown up with their black sheep.

He wasn't going to despair again. If he despaired, he couldn't protect Aziraphale. Aziraphale had come back to him once. He would again.

The taste of pears lingered on Crowley's tongue. There were no pears in heaven. No sorbet. No sugar or carbohydrates of any kind. No wine or books or decent music and no one to make Azirphale cups of tea just the way he liked them. No one who almost understood him.

No one who secretly worshipped the ground he walked on.

Even if they didn't kill him or technically torture him, just _being_ there would be torture. He hadn't been lying when he convinced Aziraphale would hate heaven. Harps never suited his angel.

Crowley couldn't rely on the Principalities. Vehuel and Daniel didn't seem particularly hostile to Aziraphale, but they didn't understand him either,and they trusted the other angels. Crowley would just have to get Aziraphale back from Heaven himself. And the first step to getting Aziraphale to do _anything_ was simple.

Books.

His ice cream was becoming distinctly unappealing, the cone soggy from melting sorbet. He tossed it on the ground, careful to litter, and licked the stickiness off his hand. Then he returned to the Bentley, climbed in, and began to drive. Or would have, if she’d started.

"What's wrong with you, old lady? I need to go shopping."

Nothing. Crowley glanced at the fuel gauge, which was pointing to Empty. No problem there, then. "Come on." Nope. He glanced towards the empty passenger seat just to make sure Aziraphale wasn't there to laugh at him--although, dear Someone, he would give anything for him to be—and brought out his secret coaxing trick. "Drive well for Daddy, baby."

The voice of Freddie Mercury blared out of the speakers.

"Look, we need to talk. We don't do the Queen thing anymore unless I actually choose it, remember? We play the CD Daddy put in. Which is Bach, if you need reminding."

> My goddess, hear my darkest fear  
>  I speak too late  
>  It's forevermore that I wait.

"Oh, So that's it. Look, it's not my fault he went back to Heaven. And I'm not abandoning him. I'll get him back." Crowley grimaced. "Look, I'll prove it. I'll buy a book."

The Bentley finally relented, pulling out onto the street, but Crowley had the feeling he was on borrowed time. Still, his car had softened enough to switch from Queen to The Velvet Underground.

> Thought of you as my mountain top,  
>  Thought of you as my peak,  
>  Thought of you as everything, I’ve had but couldn’t keep

"That's not _helping_ , baby. We're getting him back." Crowley sighed. "I always knew you liked him better than you liked me. Can't say I blame you."

The Bentley purred.

* * *

"Well, most customers want to summon demons, not angels. Especially customers with snake tattoos."

"It's a birthmark." Crowley inspected the bookseller carefully for signs of divine nature. It wouldn't have surprised him at this point if Edinburgh turned out to be some kind of retirement home for Principalities, and that the ban on him going there had less to do with the fire than he'd thought. Although recent events suggested Crowley couldn't recognise an angel if they turned on their halo and shook their wings out while singing _glory, glory glory_. His senses had always been turned on and attuned to Aziraphale, to his own angel's warm light, no space to notice any others.

The bookseller pointedly stared at his snake mark in response, as if to make it clear that she thought he was pond-scum who should never step foot among her precious books. It was gratifying to realise just how carefully Aziraphale maintained his cover, although Crowley had always thought it was just his book-hoarding personality.

"Look, I know how to summon demons. Do you have books on communicating with angels in Heaven, or not?" He thought it was important to specify the location of the angel, especially as he was experienced in summoning angels located on Earth. Lately, it just had taken a phone call and a hint of temptation to dinner or a show.

"Have you tried praying?"

"Absolutely not. They would laugh their arses off."

The bookseller glared at him. Crowley was beginning to wonder if all booksellers were cranky monsters if you tried to get them to part with their stock. He had thought it was only Aziraphale. Eventually, the book woman seemed to give up. "Religion, Spirituality and Magic is over there."

"Right," Crowley said, trying to give the impression he hung around in bookshops all the time. Technically he did, but getting drunk in the backroom or turning into a snake to scare away persistent customers didn't really help him find books.

He scanned the second-hand shelves for anything that mentioned the word _angel_ and could possibly be a grimoire.. _Chicken Soup for the Soul: Angels All Around._ Well, there did seem to be angels all around, but not the right one. He flicked dismissively through it, shuddering at the inspirational stories. Most of the books were sentimental and nauseating in equal measure. Did no one try to summon and enslave angels anymore? Had they no ambition?

A couple of books did look as if they might be guides to summoning angels, but a quick flick through showed nothing but dubious anecdotes of meeting angels2 and vague exhortations to call on them with a sincere desire for them to appear. Useless. If calling out to Aziraphale with a sincere desire was enough, Aziraphale would be appearing at the most awkward moments during Crowley's important alone time.

 _Angels: God's Secret Agents_ made him grin, remembering Aziraphale in that church, but the smile hurt. Fuck, how could he miss Aziraphale like this? It had been not much longer than an hour since Aziraphale was eating ice cream at him. It ached as much as when they had been separated for years.

He was going to fucking glue himself to Aziraphale's side when he got him back.

In the end, Crowley purchased a couple of the more promising books with titles about Angel Magic, and, somewhat shamefacedly, a volume entitled _Sex With Angels: The Watchers and the Watched._3 Well, a demon could dream, and this particular one quite often did.

* * *

Crowley went back to the hotel to read, and found himself pausing.. uncertainly outside their doors. Aziraphale had _kissed his cheek goodnight._ His cheek burned at the memory. And with it, an uncomfortable, sick feeling.

Aziraphale had never kissed him like that before. Tenderly, fondly, intimately. And Crowley had kissed Aziraphale's cheek in the morning, and now Aziraphale was gone. Just because it was a clear sequence of events didn't mean it wasn't a coincidence.

Among the many things he didn't believe in, Crowley didn't believe in coincidences.

He went into his own room and flopped on the hotel bed, surrounded by his purchases, and flipped through them, his mind screaming at him to do something more active than reading the complete and utter bullshit humans _dared_ to write and sell about celestial beings. Inaction didn't suit Crowley. Sloth, yes, he was proud of his devotion to sloth, but not hopeless passive waiting for an unknown fate. Inaction had been one of the worst things in the Last Days. Aziraphale was gone, and he had no idea what to do beyond...

...pray. A lot of good that had ever done him. God didn't listen. The other angels sure didn't, not to a demon. Crowley was pretty sure Haniel wouldn't give him the time of day. He couldn't even _remember_ Haniel. Besides, he couldn't pray to Heaven, even for Aziraphale.

Wait.

What kind of stupid thing was that to think? He would do anything for Aziraphale. He would burn the Bentley, he would crawl through holy water, he would let himself be confined to the deepest pit, he would sit through _Yeomen of the Guard._ He could humble himself a little and pray, even if every infernal instinct made him want to claw out his brain at the very thought.

"Aziraphale?" he tried, to the empty room. "Um, angel, grant my prayer and come back to me. And please don't take the piss out of me for praying to you." He stared at the ceiling. "Fine, laugh as much as you want. Gloat at me for the next five hundred years. Just come back. I miss you. I know it's been less than a day, but this was supposed to be _our_ holiday. And I'm worried about you. Come home, or let me know how you are." No response. He hadn't really expected one. "Because if you are in trouble, I will find a way to storm Heaven and get you back. I promise."

"You can count on me," he whispered, turning his head into the pillow. Even though he didn't know what to do. "I'm on our side."

He was bleeding. He was sure of it. "God. Hey. Me again. Not yelling at You this time. Just give him back. We saved Your precious humans for you, and he never lost faith in You. Don't You owe him something?"

She didn't answer, of course. She never did. He wasn't even sure if She ever listened. He flung out his hand in frustration, and one of the books fell open next to his head. He glared at the page through one eye.

> If you have prayers you feel are not being heard by God, ask Archangel Sandalphon to step in. He delivers these great prayers to God for tending. 4

No. Fucking no. Crowley remembered the smug smile as the angel permitted Eric to punch Azirpahale, to hurt and humiliate him before killing him. Crowley was angry with Eric, but at least Eric was a demon. Sandalphon was an _angel_.

_I would do anything for Aziraphale._

Fuck. Not that.

Crowley opened his mouth to pray, and at that moment, his phone rang.

1 Mind you, only one being in creation was his type. Crowley decided on his type soon after incorporation, spotting a bored angel half-heartedly guarding an apple tree. The decision was as permanent as when he looked at the many and varied colours of the physical world and went "I'll have black." As for what type Daniel is, this is the spiritual successor to [You'll Never Get to Heaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20337796) so I'm afraid she looks like fifty year old pop princess Kylie Minogue. ↩

2 In at least a couple of cases they were dubious visitations because the angel in question was Crowley, making one of his sporadic attempts at holding up his end of the Arrangement instead of making Aziraphale do all the boring work for him. He'd figured out a ratio of at least three miracles to every ten temptations was enough to keep Aziraphale from becoming _too_ suspicious of his coin flips. ↩

3 Yes, it's a real book. Angels apparently only practice bdsm and are tops. Unfortunately, few of the salacious secrets promised on the blurb are fulfilled in the text. By Jack Tanner. ↩

4 _Connecting with the Archangels_ by Kevin Hunter. ↩

**Author's Note:**

> All titles from Velvet Underground or Lou Reed solo songs.
> 
> I haven't forgotten my longer WiPs and I'm working on them in the background, but for now, relatively short and uncomplicated is what I have the headspace for. --Update: ha, ha, ha. Famous last words.
> 
> I love, read and cherish every one every comment. You brighten my life, guys.


End file.
